Part 3 (2/2)
”Let's hurry, brother Julyan!” said Armel rus.h.i.+ng on his companion with fresh impetus. ”Let us hurry to hear the pretty stories of the stranger.”
”The plow can go no faster than the plowman, brother Armel,” answered Julyan.
With these words, Julyan seized his sabre with both hands, stretched himself at full length, and dealt so furious a stroke to his adversary that, although the latter threw himself back and thereby softened the blow, his buckler flew into splinters and the weapon struck Armel in the temple. The wounded man staggered for an instant and then fell flat upon his back, amid the admiring cries of ”_Her_ ... _her_ ... Julyan!” from the enraptured by-standers among whom Stumpy was the loudest with the cry of ”_Her_ ... _her_!”
After lowering her distaff as a sign that the combat was over Mamm'
Margarid stepped toward the wounded combatant to give him her attention, while Joel said to his guest, reaching him the cup:
”Friend guest, you shall drink this old wine to the triumph of Julyan.”
”I drink to the triumph of Julyan and also to the valiant defeat of Armel!” responded the stranger. ”The courage of the vanquished youth equals that of the vanquisher.... I have seen many a combat, but never have I seen greater bravery and courage displayed! Glory to the family of Joel!... Glory to your tribe!”
”Formerly,” said Joel, ”these festive combats took place among us almost every day. Now they are rarer; they have been replaced by wrestling matches; but sabre combats better recall the habits of the old Gauls.”
Mamm' Margarid shook her head after a second inspection of the wound, while Julyan steadying himself against the wall sought to hold up his friend. One of the young women hurried with a casket of lint and salves, in which was also a little vial of mistletoe water. Armel's wound bled copiously; it was staunched with difficulty; the wounded youth's face was pale and his eyes closed.
”Brother Armel,” said Julyan to him in a cheerful voice, on his knees beside the prostrate Armel, ”do not break down for so little.... Each has his day and his hour.... To-day you were wounded, to-morrow will be my turn.... We fought bravely.... The stranger will not forget the young men of Karnak and of the family of Joel, the brenn of the tribe.”
His face down, his forehead bathed in cold perspiration, Armel seemed not to hear the voice of his friend. Mamm' Margarid again shook her head, ordered some burnt coal, that was brought her on a little flat stone and threw on it some of the pulverized mistletoe bark. A strong vapor rose from the little brasier, and Mamm' Margarid made Armel inhale it. A little after he opened his eyes, looked around as if he awoke from a dream, and said feebly:
”The angel of death calls me.... I shall now live no longer here but yonder.... My father and mother will be surprised and pleased to see me so soon.... I also shall be happy to meet them.”
A second later he added regretfully:
”How I would have liked to hear the pretty stories of the traveler!”
”What, brother Armel!” said Julyan, visibly astonished and grieved. ”Are you to depart so soon from us? We were enjoying life so well together.... We swore brotherhood and never to leave each other!”
”We did so swear, Julyan,” Armel answered feebly, ”but it is otherwise decreed.”
Julyan dropped his head upon his two hands and made no answer.
Mamm' Margarid, skillful in the art of tending wounds, an art that she learned from a druid priestess her relative, placed her hand on Armel's heart. A few seconds later she said to those near her and who, together with Joel and his guest, stood around:
”Teutates calls Armel away to take him to those who have preceded us. He will soon depart. If any of us has any message for the loved ones who have preceded us yonder, and wishes Armel to carry it--let him make haste.”
Mamm' Margarid thereupon kissed the forehead of the dying young man and said to him: ”Give to all the members of our family the kiss of remembrance and hope.”
”I shall give them, Mamm' Margarid, the kiss of remembrance and hope in your name,” answered Armel in a fainting voice, and added again in a pet, ”and yet I would so much have liked to hear the pretty stories of the traveler!”
These words seemed deeply to affect Julyan, who still holding his friend's head looked down upon him with sadness.
Little Sylvest, the son of Guilhern, a child of rosy cheeks and golden hair, who held with one hand the hand of his mother Henory, advanced a little and addressing the dying relative said:
”I loved little Alanik very much; he went away last year.... Tell him that little Sylvest always remembers him, and embrace him for me, Armel.”
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